Musings of a medic
by Phoenixflames12
Summary: November 1831. Joly trudges through the snow covered streets of Paris on his way to a meeting with Les Amis de l'ABC and has time to think. A short oneshot featuring our favourite medical student written in celebration of me getting over a horrible period of serious writers' block. Please feel free to read and review! x


_**A/N: November 1831. Joly trudges through the snow covered streets of Paris on his way to a meeting of Les Amis de l'ABC. **_

_**T**__**his is my first attempt at Joly/Muschietta/ Bossuet so please bare with me! Please feel free to read and review- anything constructive is like chocolate to my brain! Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? Please don't sue me! Much love and enjoy x**_

Musings of a medic

The city is blanketed with a thick cloak of snow as a solitary figure trudges his way over the Seine and towards the bright, flickering lights of the Café Musain. His hands are dug deep within his pockets as he follows the slice of mud carved up by a passing fiacre and he has a red scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, folded up over a cleft chin and determined mouth. His mop of dark hair is covered by a flat workman's cap of Bossuet's which Muschietta had found under a pile of half finished lawyers' papers lying innocently on the arm of one of their armchairs in their joint sitting room cum study which looked out over a snow blanketed garden where she is trying to grow vegetables for his patients at the hospital. Not that there was much point, he thinks bitterly as the icy bite of the wind whips up under his coat and freezes his hands which are clasped around a scrap of fraying paper with which he wants as little to do with as possible. Around his neck he can feel the warm bite of the leather as his dilapidated satchel strap digs into the tender skin of his neck. His boots are good, but his toes are still curled up against the icy bite of the cold, cocooned within two pairs of thick knitted socks that he had found under his bed curled up around an empty tonic bottle that he had completely forgotten about using.

Tentatively, he extracts his free hand and delves inside, numb fingers fondling his cargo of assorted objects. He remembers with a slight chuckle, Muschietta dashing around the cramped apartment, hands wringing in desperation as she searched for the tonic that he had prepared for Enjolras's migraines; finally finding it perched perilously on one of his many medical journals on the cluttered windowsill. 'Why is it there?' She had asked in wide eyed wonder, her large amber eyes alight with happiness as she sprinted through the sitting room to where he was waiting and had enfolded him into a fierce embrace; as he had silently drunk up the faint smell of rosewater and flour that clung to her dress like a second skin. He had shaken his head and kissed her again; relishing in the soft warmth of her lightly freckled cheek before placing the glass phial into his bag and making for the door. She, however, had had other ideas. One long fingered hand had gripped his sleeve; pulling him back into the guttering lamplight that illuminated their cramped hallway. 'Be careful', she whispered and he understood as she had reached up to stroke a stray lock of hair from out of his eyes. He understands her anxiety; feeling it himself sometimes when he makes the journey from the candlelit safety of their shared apartment to the heady atmosphere of feverish anticipation awaiting him at the Café Musain. She hates it when he goes out to the café after hours; hates the long hours sitting in the darkness by the window, staring out at a city slowly unravelling itself under a cover of inky blue studded with silver in a constant state of choked up fear as she imagines Bossuet coming home bloody and bruised, imagines him being carried in a state of broken unconsciousness by Feuilly or Bahorel from a drunken fight with Montparnasse or one of the other prowlers who stalked the streets of Saint Michel, shrouded by an invisibility cloak of darkness.

His fingers hit the other objects and he smiles, despite himself. Parchment for Jehan who has run out and was in a state of almost feverish excitement at the thought of a new poem, the last time he saw him; the fresh, flattened wood pulp rolled up and tied with scrap of dark blue ribbon. A pamphlet on Louis XIV's new economic policy for Courfeyrac, who has been so caught up with passing his lawyers' exams that he has barely had a chance to think. A slim, leather bound second edition of Adam Mickiewicz's 'Pan Tadeusz' for Feuilly which he had picked up for a couple of sous at the market that morning and hadn't opened; knowing that Feuilly and only Feuilly would understand the bubble of excitement that had entered his chest when he saw it under the bright blue and white striped awning by the steps of the Notre Dame. A new pack of cards for Bahorel who had told him in a hushed undertone at the end of their last meeting that he was going to try and teach Gavroche how to play when the gamin next popped his head of dirty blonde curls round the door to relay news from the streets. Enjolras…

He swallows and allows his other hand to tighten protectively around the scrap of paper shoved deep within his other pocket. He wishes Enjolras hadn't asked him for the figures of the latest influenza epidemic that was sweeping through the streets of Paris like wildfire but what could he do? An epidemic that was growing too large too fast and there was nothing that his professors or he himself could do for the poor patients who staggered in a trickling line of bloody coughs through the door of the hospital. Rage bubbles up his throat like molten fire and he coughs convulsively, watching his breath spiral out of his gasping mouth in plume of silver vapour. Why? Why couldn't he do more? Without warning, his mind turns to Gavroche and standing in the falling snow, he offers up a silent prayer for the safety of the blonde haired, blue eyed gamin who was as much a part of Les Amis de l'ABC as he is, as any of them are. Gavroche is their mascot, their little brother, their confident on the word that spread through the street, here one minute and gone the next; he will do anything and everything in his power to keep him safe. He has to survive. It is imperative that he survives this hell that has snuck into the city shrouded by a thick cloak of thick, white snow. It...

Even behind the so-called safety of his eyelids he sees the victims. Sees the large, unfocused eyes, which are bright with pain as the thin shoulders shake under the fierce hold of the relentless, hacking cough that is flecked with blood; a sure sign that Fate has made ready her merciless shears. Feels their scrabbling, pleading hands begging him, beseeching him for release for relief as he goes round on his duties, handing out water and brandy, extra blankets, whispered words of comfort that he knows they do not believe. He wishes he could do more for them, but the supplies of medicine at the hospital are running dangerously low and in this weather… He glares up at the steel grey sky which is steadily releasing its' burden of fluttering snow flakes and wishes it could be different. Wishes he could do something, something that wouldn't make him feel so inadequate and alien towards his patients. Oh yes, the revolutionary dream of Enjolras was something; he hates to think that his heart was not following his golden, godlike leaders' beloved Patria to freedom, but the clawing, nagging sensation of doubt which has settled itself comfortably in the pit of his stomach still refuses to go away. It stays, stubborn and irremovable, slowly picking away his fragile confidence until it is nothing more than a scrap of scarlet fluttering in the still, night breeze.

He is so caught up with his musings that he barely notices that slight pressure tugging persistently on the lapel of his jacket. Glancing down, he sees the pitifully thin, raggedy figure of a girl in a tattered, mud stained dress that in better days could have been a dark, forest green but now resembled sludge. Her feet are bare and turning blue with cold, her large, dark eyes wide with awestruck fear as she gazes up at him; her snub nose that is caressed by a smattering of freckles slowly turning red. A mane of straggly, dark blonde hair frames her pale, pinched face. His heart twists painfully in his chest as he searches for his wallet; knowing all too well what she wants and hating the fact that he can't give it to her. She wants warmth, comfort, safety, a family like it as not...

'Please M'seur…' Her voice is little more than a gravelly, lisping croak as she extends her open palm, the skin dark with cold and bruising. He tries to smile at her but it fades on his lips as his numb fingers hit the round, comforting weight of a few spare sous which make up the detritus lining the very bottom of his pocket. He digs them out and blows on the faded metal before handing them out very gently to the waiting, claw like palm. 'Merci Monsieur', she all but whispers; bobbing a scrap of a curtsey before hurrying away into the swirling snow and vanishing from sight. He gazes after her, words blossoming on his frigid lips but it is too late. She has vanished into the swirling abyss of snow before he can call her back, before he can ask her why she is out alone on such a bitter night, a night where the pneumonia and influenza germs which he is so desperate to prevent can breed like wildfire. His unspoken question is answered even before his brain finishes processing it. _Of course. _She is simply trying to save herself, save her family who are probably sheltering under a bridge, frozen feet huddled up and off the ice with precious little to call their own save for a few raggedy blankets and the tattered rags on their backs. The injustice of it all rises rapidly in his throat like vomit; white hot and burning and he chokes it down, forcing himself to keep moving. He will get frostbite if he stays in the bitter open air for much longer and he does not need that on his friends' minds when they have more important things to preoccupy their thoughts. Pulling his coat tighter around his shivering shoulders, he checks his satchel and his pocket for the accursed Mortality Bills and sets off again to the comforting warmth of friendship that awaited him in the top room of the Café Musain.

_**Fin**_

_**A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Like I say, reviews are virtual chocolate to my brain so anything: constructive **_**_criticism, suggestions on this pairing whom I've never done before so you know... etc are love! Much love and enjoy x_**


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